


dirty rolled up sweatpants never meant so much

by milominderbinder



Series: maia's shameless fic a day in the month of may [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Canon Rape, Sharing Clothes, cute boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:29:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sharing of clothes starts with a bet, and develops out of convenience.</p><p>But in the end it becomes much, much more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dirty rolled up sweatpants never meant so much

It starts with a bet.

A pretty fucking stupid bet, born out of a pretty fucking slow day at the Kash and Grab. Only a couple of customers have come in since they opened too early that morning, and Mickey’s been bored out of his mind, flicking through the shit magazines and wandering around the store aimlessly, moving cans to different shelves just to hear the annoyed huff of Ian’s voice as he comes over and puts them back again. Linda ain’t even upstairs, off ferrying her kids about somewhere, so Ian doesn’t seem to think twice about it when he finishes turning all the canned peas around so the labels face the right way again and suggests, “Wanna close up early? Think my house is empty.”

Mickey agrees because he’s got a crick in his neck from where Ian had bent him over the freezer the other day, thinks it might be nice to fuck in a bed for a change. Of course, he probably could have predicted it, but when they’re back at Ian’s empty house they don’t actually fuck right away. Ian heads straight for the kitchen and starts ferreting around, looking for something to eat, and yeah, okay, Mickey could eat. So he accepts the bag of cheetos Ian passes him and they go and sit on Ian’s couch, turn on the TV to some random station, don’t talk.

Until they do talk, because Ian’s pouring the whole fucking bag of cheetos into his mouth, and for some reason Mickey thinks it’d be a good idea to say, “Ey, bet I can fit more in my mouth than you.”

Ian swallows, eyes him for a moment, then says, “winner gets a hummer?”

Mickey nods. It’s the usual terms for when they bet on dumb shit like this.

And Mickey wins, because of course he does, and they head up to Ian’s bedroom, and Ian sucks him off, looking not even remotely bitter about losing. After Mickey’s come down Ian’s throat, Ian’s scrambling up his body, pulling his dick out of his jeans, because he always gets so fucking hard just from blowing Mickey. He just gets a hand on his dick and is pushing himself as close to Mickey’s body as he can go, and Mickey’s about to offer him a blow job too, because of course he’s a charitable motherfucker, but it turns out not to matter.

Because then Ian’s shooting jizz all over Mickey’s shirt.

“Ey, asshole!” Mickey says, pushing him away as Ian’s laughing, catching his breath and wiping a hand across his sweating forehead. “This was my favourite fuckin’ shirt.”

Ian raises an eyebrow at that, and yeah, okay, the shirt’s not actually special in any way. Still, annoying, he hardly wants to go home with a come stain on his shirt, that’ll mean too many fucking questions he doesn’t want to answer.

“I’ve probably got something you can borrow,” Ian says when he’s done laughing. They lie there for a little while longer, rumpled and half undressed and awkwardly twined together at the sides, share a joint, talk shit but mostly don’t say anything at all. Then Ian decides his family will be home soon, and Mickey gets up, asks for that shirt he was promised.

Ian sighs like it’s the biggest fucking effort in the world to get off the bed and reach for his shelves, rummages around for a while before producing a black t-shirt with a magic 8 ball on the front. He tosses it over and it hits Mickey in the face.

Mickey pulls off his own shirt and throws it at Ian in retaliation, dried come stain and all, and Ian dodges with ease but then scoops the shirt up anyway, puts it in the hamper in the corner of the room. Mickey pulls on Ian’s shirt, and then his own jacket and shoes and scarf, and goes home.

And that’s where the sharing of clothes begins.

\--

The next time is nothing special. Ian’s over hanging out with Mandy, and he’s cold, because of fucking course their house has no heating that month, and it’s nearing winter. Ian makes a trip through Mickey’s bedroom to take a piss, and when he comes back out of the bathroom afterwards, Mickey throws a hoodie at his head. Just a plain brown zip up thing. No big deal.

“Put it on before you freeze your fucking nads off,” he mumbles, and Ian laughs, that bright, amazed laugh he does sometimes when Mickey surprises him. He shrugs it on as he’s heading back out to Mandy’s room. Mickey can see him snuggling into the cuff, just a little, like he can’t believe Mickey gave it to him.

They don’t even fuck, that day. Ian keeps the stupid hoodie.

\--

Ian keeps the stupid hoodie, so Mickey feels justified in not returning Ian’s dumb magic 8-ball shirt, either. He doesn’t want to give Ian the fucking satisfaction of seeing him wearing it, though, so he mostly contains it to the house. He starts sleeping in it, after a while. And that has fuck all to do with the way it still smells a little like Ian, his fresh minty shower gel and the sweet-bitter scent of weed and the generic laundry detergent he always uses. And it also has fuck all to do with how that smell seems to calm Mickey down and help him sleep, sometimes, when his jackhammer heart is beating too fast in his chest as it always seems to be.

It has fuck all to do with any of that. He just doesn’t own a lot of shirts.

One day he’s sleeping in - he’d stayed out late with Ian fucking around in the baseball dugout and hadn’t come crashing in the door until four in the morning, so he doesn’t feel bad about staying in bed until the next afternoon - when Mandy comes barging through to use the bathroom, and _notices_ him.

“Ian has a shirt like that,” she says, staring at him a little dumbly, like she’s trying to put her finger on something but her brain cells won’t quite knock together the right way for it to happen. “Huh. Weird.”

“Maybe he left it here one time he was hanging out with you,” Mickey suggests. It’s dumb - why would Ian be taking his shirt off in front of Mandy, anyway? - but she seems to accept it.

He waits until she leaves the room before pulling it back up over his face.

\--

Ian’s sweatpants are too long on Mickey; he has to roll them up twice at the bottom just so he’s not tripping over as he walks. But they’re soft and comforting in that way only old, worn sweats can be, so he doesn’t mind, even ignores Ian’s laughter at his stumbling about.

It’s Ian’s fault, anyway, for knocking a cup of soda into Mickey’s lap in a rush to get his dick out the second they were alone in the house.

\--

After a while, it gets to the stage where it’s just a _thing_. No special circumstances required. Mickey will sometimes be rooting through his room and find his shirts and hoodies switched out with someone else’s, and then a week later his clothes will be back again, the same only smelling a little different in a way that seems to soothe his stomach.

\--

When it all comes crashing down - when Terry walks in and Svetlana arrives and he gets married and there’s suddenly a baby and Ian leaves, all that shit - Mickey doesn’t have a whole lot left.

He has a wife he can’t look at, with a quickly swelling belly.  He has a father who never seems quite at ease around him anymore, is quicker to hit than he ever used to be, who eyes Mickey warily when he thinks nobody’s looking.  He has a sister who seems to hate and pity him in equal measures for driving away her white knight of a best friend.  Worst of all, he has a hole in his heart where Ian had once forced his way in, and it aches all the time without stopping.

But something else he has is the brown hoodie he’d once lent Ian.  And the magic 8 ball shirt, and the sweatpants he’d had to roll up at the bottom, and a pair of striped boxers that aren’t his, and a beanie that Ian had worn over once and left without.

Mickey takes what small comfort there is to be had from the clothes.  He sleeps in Ian’s shirt and sweatpants, in a sleeping bag under the sheets, turned away from the swell of his pregnant wife’s belly.

Sometimes, when nobody else is home, he balls up these things which are all he has left of Ian, buries his face in them.  Pretends.

\--

Ian comes back but he’s not the same.  It seems like most of the clothes he wears these days are fucking booty shorts.  That’s one thing Mickey will sure as shit never borrow from him.

Ian, as it turns out, is sick.  He stays curled up in Mickey’s sheets for days, refusing to move, _unable_ to move, from what Mickey understands.

Mickey is so fucking worried he feels like his whole _soul_ might collapse in on itself.  The only thing that makes him feel better is wearing Ian’s shirt, day after day, the whole time Ian is in bed.  Sometimes, when he feels like crying, he’ll ball his fists in the fabric, hold on tight, like that’s somehow helping him hold on to _Ian._

Eventually Ian gets up, and then it’s months of chaos and doctors and meds and money issues and fighting and fucking and loving, which is all fine with Mickey because they’re doing it all _together._

\--

Ian doesn’t actually officially move in, more just stops sleeping anywhere but Mickey’s house.  

Eventually Mickey loses track of what clothes were ever his to begin with.

**Author's Note:**

> for the fic-a-day-in-may challenge, and the prompt: _ian and mickey sharing clothes please!!_
> 
> send me more prompts on tumblr: [mickeymilk](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com).


End file.
